Revealing Love
by Dawnstorm101
Summary: SPOILERS FOR THE SEASON 4 FINALE. Sherlock was forced to force Molly to do something she despised. So he shows up at her door, desperate to fix things. But Molly wasn't the only one who spent the day being emotionally tortured. So, naturally, Sherlock isn't allowed to just mumble an apology and leave.


A/N: I JUST WATCHED THE FINAL PROBLEM AND I HAVE FEELINGSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Here's the result of the Sherlolly ones.

* * *

Molly sat on her couch, scooping chocolate ice cream out of the container. Her eyes were red, but the tears had stopped flowing long ago. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation, crying over Sherlock Holmes. The reasons varied, and she knew that he wasn't really aware of them all, nor did he mean to make her cry, but today… What he'd done… Made her say… On the _phone_ , for a _case_ , as part of an _experiment_ …

The doorbell rang. She didn't even consider getting up. Just stuck another spoonful of ice cream in her mouth.

It rang again.

Three times.

Four.

Five.

"Ugh, fine!" she snapped. Slamming the container down on the coffee table, she stood up and made her way to the door. She tried to make herself look presentable, calm down some.

Until she saw who was at the door.

At that, she spun on her heel, ready to stalk back to her couch and eat some more.

"Please, Molly."

Her anger wobbled. Even through the door, she could hear his pain. His voice was quiet, trembling, breaking. It was… _desperate_. Desperate in the way an abused puppy craved a caring touch.

Slowly, she turned around. Stepped back. Stepped forward again. Rested a hand on the doorknob. Took it off. Put it back. Twisted. Let go. Twisted again.

 _Screw it._

She flung the door open. "If you've come here to apologize, you can go to he-"

Sherlock flinched visibly with every word, but made no attempt to defend himself. He made himself as tiny as possible, his hands tucked in his pockets, his arms held close to his body, his coat drawn around him like a shield. His head was ducked, his face trying to hide behind his dark curls, but their height difference showed her his red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracks shining on his cheeks.

"Sherlock?" she breathed.

His eyes flicked to her and immediately back to the ground. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. He was hesitant not because of lack of meaning – she could hear his sincerity – but from fear.

 _Fear I won't accept it,_ Molly realized silently.

She reached out, agonized when he started to flinch away. But she took hold of his elbow, gently guiding him into the house. He stumbled along, all his normal grace gone, banished by… something. Something terrible.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry. I'm-"

"I know. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

He shook his head. "Yes. Yes, you should ha-"

"Tell me what happened," Molly requested. She settled him on the couch, placed the ice cream on his lap, sat beside him. He stared at the frozen chocolate, his gaze utterly blank.

 _Shock,_ her medical mind supplied. _He's… feeling… too much. Sherlock Holmes is feeling too much._

And he spilled. The words came hesitantly at first, with much stammering, but a couple sentences seemed to break a dam. Then the words poured out, a tsunami of history and fragmented memories and raw emotions. His sister, his best friend, the experiments, almost shooting Mycroft, barely saving John-

Hercoffin.

Destroying it.

For her.

Grief. Confusion. Terror. Loneliness. Love.

Everything he didn't let himself feel.

Everything he didn't know how to handle.

They all poured out of him.

He shook. Violently. His cheeks shone. Tears distorted his beautiful irises.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "For today. For every day. For everything I ever did or said or-"

Molly pulled him against her.

He protested. Tried to pull away.

She didn't let him.

But he held himself back, glanced up at her face. His eyebrows furrowed.

"Y-you d-don't hate me?"

"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered. "I could never hate you."

"B-but I'm a bas-"

Molly placed a silencing finger over his mouth. "Yes, you were. For a long time, you were. But now we know – you weren't always. It was a coping mechanism. Albeit a painful one for everyone involved."

He tried to apologize again.

"Stop saying that," she ordered him firmly. "I _know_ you're sorry. And I will forgive you – on one condition."

"What?" he asked. The single word more desperate, more heartbrokenly eager than anything Molly had ever known before.

"Never block off your emotions again. Lean on your parents. Lean on John. Lean on me. Your brother. Greg. _Any of us._ It's ok to have your protective shell. Everyone has one. But _let us into it._ Never completely go back to what you were. Be yourself, be who you've become. The drama queen detective who loves his tiny makeshift family. Be _him._ Not the sociopath who keeps all humans and semblance of emotion at arm's length."

"High-functioning," Sherlock mumbled. "It's high-functioning sociopath."

Despite it all, Molly laughed.

Sherlock did, too.

And then he melted. Buried his face in her shoulder, wrapped his arms around her torso. Did everything humanly possible to curl into her shelter, her warmth. He cried, long and hard and unrestrained, long after he had run out of tears.

Molly just held him close. Rubbed his back, ran her fingers through his hair. Whispered soothing nothings.

Part of her knew that she should still be angry. That she was well within her rights to still be angry. Maybe later, she would be.

But here and now… there was no anger. No point in anger.

For now, there was only healing. Only each other's embraces.

After a long, long while, he had gone still. He had relaxed, his legs stretching out so he wasn't quite in a ball, but his grip on her remained strong. An occasional sob still shook him every now and then, but for the most part, his breathing was slow and steady. He was nearing sleep.

Molly was too, honestly.

But they both had enough awareness left to say one last sentence. To hear one last sentence.

"I love you, Molly," Sherlock breathed.

Logically, Molly should probably be feeling a lot of things. "Glowing with joy" probably wasn't on that list.

But she wasn't a Vulcan. So logic be damned.

Sherlock Holmes had just uttered the sentence she'd dreamed of for so long. The sentence she had never quite stopped daring to hope for.

And he had meant it. Truly, truly _meant it._

This wasn't a case, an experiment, a necessity to save her life.

This was Sherlock. This was his human heart. This was the side of him she had always known existed, finally emerging. Maybe not quite into the light of day, but into the light of her living room would do for now.

She smiled. Nestled her head atop his.

"I love you, Sherlock."


End file.
